The Currency Lass

by Téa Cooper

  Standing just inside the door she waited for her eyes to adjust. The single lamp in the corner threw distorted shadows across the walls. A dim figure moved in the corner, stood up and shuffled towards her.

  ‘Been watching over him. He’s good and ready.’ An old woman, a servant perhaps, slipped through the door and closed it behind her.

  The coffin sat on a pair of trestle legs, and swallowing her morbid fear Catherine stepped closer and peered inside.

  Pa looked almost peaceful, his face free of the lines pain had etched, his arms crossed over his chest and his thick white hair brushed back from his face. She reached out a tentative finger and traced it down his waxen cheek. ‘I’ll take you home, Pa, I promise. Once I’ve worked out how.’ He might be dead but he was still Pa. The man who’d held her tight and kept her safe, done everything he could for her after they’d lost Ma.

  She ran her palm over the polished cedar coffin and sniffed back a tear, inhaling the sweet, sickly odour permeating the room. She had to make her decision quickly. How to get Pa home and who to ask for help?

  Why, oh why had Pa entered into this ridiculous arrangement with Bartholomew? Why had he proposed a marriage for her without consulting her? Unlike Bartholomew, he’d never been very wealthy, too busy worrying about the welfare of others, but Cottington was hardly rundown. Far from it. It was a self-sufficient village. Why, they even had their own brick kiln, and the new vineyard was flourishing.

  After her performance earlier it was surprising Bartholomew hadn’t immediately asked her to leave his house. Perhaps that would have made matters easier. The thought of marriage to Bartholomew and life in Sydney made her blood run cold, colder than Pa’s. She needed a dray and a driver at least, but a week trailing along the Great North Road was out of the question. Pa should be buried as soon as possible. Already the cloying scent of the lilies failed to mask the tainted air. She had no time to waste.

  Her gaze fell on the lid of the coffin resting against the wall, the light catching the engraved brass plate. Reginald Cottingham 1790–1851 and beneath in a very discreet script William Weaver, Sydney. Of course, the undertaker. The man Bartholomew engaged while she lay incapable of action, crying as her heart broke.

  Finding Mr Weaver was easier than Catherine imagined. His premises in Market Street sported a sober yet expensive window shrouded by black velvet curtains and a fine glass door. A sign read Undertaker William Weaver. Please ring. Pulling her veil tight under her chin she rang the brass bell and waited. She might as well have been a sneak thief for the way she felt, her heart slamming against her ribs and tiny drops of perspiration breaking out on her upper lip.

  The door opened and a sober-faced raven of a man stood on the doorstep. His gaze raked her from her mourning veil to the toes of her black shoes. ‘How may I help you?’ He obviously approved.

  ‘Mr Weaver, you were kind enough to attend to my father Reginald Cottingham.’

  ‘Ah yes. Mr Bartholomew requested my services.’ He ushered her into the front room. ‘My condolences. Please sit down.’

  He led her to a straight-backed chair in front of a laid but unlit fire. Thank heavens. The room was stuffy enough as it was and a strange metallic odour snatched at the back of her throat.

  Hovering in front of the fireplace he rocked on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘I’d like to take my father home. He wished to be buried alongside my mother.’

  Weaver cleared his throat. ‘Arrangements have already been made for your father’s funeral and his internment at Devonshire Street cemetery. Burials on private properties have not been encouraged for a number of years.’ His face fell, if possible even further, and his thumb and forefinger rubbed together as though trying to hold onto the money slipping through his fingers.

  Death might be this man’s livelihood but Pa’s wishes were more important than money. ‘I would, of course, compensate you for your expenses and any inconvenience.’ She dabbed at her eyes behind her veil. ‘I was overtaken by grief and Mr Bartholomew made the arrangements unaware of my father’s wishes.’

  Weaver let out an impatient sigh. ‘Burial space in the city area is, of course, at a premium. I have gone to great lengths to secure a plot. The headstone has been ordered, mourners organised, carriages …’

  ‘As I said, Mr Weaver, you will be compensated.’ Quite how she had no idea. She’d worry about that later. All that was important now was to get Pa home. ‘I need to make arrangements to have my father’s coffin transported without delay.’

  ‘Without delay. Indeed.’ His incessant finger rubbing slowed and he stood in front of her, forcing her to look up at him. ‘Where is home, Miss Cottingham?’

  ‘The Hunter, just outside Maitland.’

  Something that might have passed for a smile flickered across his lips. ‘The steamer to Morpeth is the obvious answer and from there, a dray.’ He rubbed his hands together, making the skin crackle like parchment.

  Of course that was the answer, only a matter of hours. ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘Certainly, when one has as many contacts as I do. I’ll make the arrangements.’ The finger rubbing began again and he gave an apologetic cough. ‘It will require an amount of money. Is there someone I can speak to on your behalf? Mr Bartholomew perhaps?’

  ‘No, Mr Weaver, I wish to deal with the matter myself. My father’s last wishes. I’m sure you understand. They are my responsibility.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’ll give you the details of my father’s solicitor in Maitland, Mr De Silva. He handles our financial affairs.’

  That seemed to work because Weaver snapped into action. ‘I shall begin making arrangements and call at the house as soon as I have organised everything. You will, of course, be travelling with your father?’

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t want Bartholomew involved in any way. ‘Please don’t call at the house, as you’d appreciate we are in mourning. I shall return tomorrow. Will that be suitable?’ She rose from the chair.

  ‘Indeed. Yes. Time is of the essence.’ He sniffed and hurried her out of the door. She found herself standing on Market Street, narrowly avoiding an out of control buggy.

  Unable to believe the ease with which she’d accomplished her mission she made her way back to The Pulteney Hotel and ordered a tray with tea and sandwiches. She was ravenous.

  Having demolished the thinly cut sandwiches, she sipped her tea and then lay down fully clothed on the top of the bed.

  When Catherine returned to Mr Weaver’s early the next morning she found him positively beaming with self-importance. ‘It is all organised. My men will collect the coff—your father—at six tonight and take him to the wharf ready for the evening departure. I was able to book you a private cabin. Quite an achievement at such short notice. You should be more than comfortable.’

  Catherine nodded. She and Pa always travelled in one of the private cabins.

  ‘Unfortunately I haven’t been able to secure a dray to meet the steamer, however, I have a letter here to a colleague of mine in Morpeth. I’m sure he will be able to help you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ With the envelope tucked into her reticule Catherine as good as ran back to the hotel. All she had to do was organise her belongings. With luck on her side she wouldn’t even have to face Bartholomew. Catherine had overheard him telling his housekeeper he’d be in his offices all day and that he intended to have a light supper at the hotel with her afterwards. That would be difficult because by suppertime she’d be on the steamer and heading out through Sydney Heads, weather permitting. She cast a look up at the sky. A bank of clouds gathered out beyond the harbour but nothing that looked particularly threatening.

  She sidestepped a pile of steaming dung and turned into Bent Street. What she wouldn’t give for a breath of clean Hunter air. By this time tomorrow, God, and a dray driver willing, she and Pa would be back at Cottington.

  A wave of homesickness coursed through her. Pa had to be buried at home. Clutching the thought tight, she made
her way up the stairs to her room to pack. The fewer people who knew about her departure the better. The Pulteney would forward the bill to De Silva as they always did so it wouldn’t be necessary to advertise her departure. Besides, she couldn’t face Bartholomew. Another argument with him about Pa’s funeral would be more than she could bear. Once she was on the steamer there’d be little he could do other than wait until the following evening for the next steamer. There was no faster way to the Hunter and this was something she had to do alone.

  She kept to her room for the rest of the day, willing the hands of the carriage clock on the mantle to move. At fifteen minutes before five, dressed in her coat and hat and carrying a small carpetbag, she walked quietly down the stairs and out into Bent Street.

  It took only a matter of minutes to reach Bartholomew’s house. She raised her hand and knocked lightly. After an agonising wait the door opened.

  ‘Come to sit with your father, have you?’ The old woman stepped back to allow her to enter. ‘Means I can go and get myself some supper.’ She shuffled off and left Catherine standing in the hallway.

  Unable to believe her good fortune she slipped inside and tucked her bag behind a potted palm and waited.

  If Bartholomew changed his plans and arrived home she had no idea how she’d explain her presence, sitting with her packed carpetbag just inside the front door like some orphan. Worse, he might arrive at the same time as Mr Weaver.

  A knock sounded and her hand flew to her chest. She eased open the door. ‘Mr Weaver.’

  ‘Miss Cottingham, we’re here to collect your father.’ He sounded almost jovial, as though it were a social engagement.

  She gestured to the stairs.

  ‘Up there, boys,’ Weaver said.

  Two burly men took the stairs two at a time and as they arrived on the top landing the housekeeper called out, ‘Hold your horses, I’m on me way.’

  ‘Please don’t disturb yourself. It’s just the undertaker, Mr Weaver, here to attend to Pa. The coffin must be returned to his premises for the funeral tomorrow.’

  Mr Weaver arched a sceptical eyebrow at her.

  ‘Thank you so very much for your co-operation, Mr Weaver.’ She pressed a piece of paper into his hand. ‘These are the details of my man in Maitland, Mr De Silva. He will reimburse all your additional expenses.’

  The note disappeared into Weaver’s pocket. ‘Easy does it now, boys, show some respect.’

  ‘Mr Weaver, I wonder if I could impose on you for a lift to the wharf. Mr Bartholomew isn’t at home and the servants are enjoying an early supper. I would hate to disturb them any further.’ She bent down to lift her carpetbag from the floor.

  Weaver beat her to it. ‘Is this all your baggage?’

  ‘All that I need at present.’ Just her breeches, boots, hat and jacket, her preferred riding clothes. She’d always changed in Morpeth when she’d travelled with Pa and they’d ride hell for leather back to Cottington, at least they had until Pa admitted defeat and gave away his horse for a buggy. ‘The rest of my belongings will remain in our rooms at the Pulteney until my return.’ A return she hoped she’d never have to make.

  ‘Very good. The steamer leaves in little under an hour, and neither tide nor wind will deter them.’

  Due to the appalling weather the steamer didn’t dock at Morpeth until well after noon the next day. Catherine made her way directly to the address on the envelope just around the corner from the Rose, Crown and Thistle, the inn nearest the wharf. A sign above the door read T. Smithson Cabinet Maker and Undertaker. A bell jangled as she pushed the door open and a cloud of sawdust and wood shavings swirled in the breeze.

  ‘Yes?’ A tired-eyed man put down his chisel and pushed his greasy hair back from his forehead.

  She held out the envelope from Mr Weaver. ‘I’m hoping to hire a dray to convey myself and my father’s coffin to Cottington Hill.’ The heavy veil, or was it the constant tears, made her voice sound hoarse.

  ‘My apologies, Miss Cottingham, I didn’t recognise you, and my condolences. Your father was a fine man. If there is anything I can do to help please don’t hesitate …’

  News certainly travelled fast. Totally absorbed by her determination to get the job done, she’d completely forgotten the impact Pa’s death would have on the wider Hunter community who held him in high regard. ‘Thank you. It’s most important I get to Cottington Hill as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. If you’d care to wait here I’ll make some enquiries.’ He pulled aside a hessian curtain and called out, ‘Ted! Where are you?’ A touch of panic laced his voice, perhaps the prospect of having someone as well known as Pa resting inside his somewhat shabby premises wasn’t something he wanted to consider.

  A mumbled discussion wafted through the curtain and then the man reappeared followed by a grubby looking fellow reeking of rum. ‘This is Ted Harris, he has a dray, idle till the morning.’

  ‘Gotta be back here for six in the morning. Where are you goin’ and what d’you need carting?’

  ‘To Cottington Hill, just outside Maitland.’

  The bleary looking man wiped his nose with the back of his hand and belched. ‘Weather’s not looking too good. Had a fair bit of rain, any more and the bridge over Wallis Creek’ll be a bugger. And there’s the swamp.’

  ‘Miss Cottingham would appreciate your help. It’s imperative she gets her father home as soon as possible.’

  The dray driver looked around and frowned. ‘Be better hiring horses or a buggy if there’s only two of you. Lot quicker.’

  ‘Her father’s coffin.’

  ‘Coffin? I don’t carry no corpses. I cart timber.’

  For goodness sake! ‘Mr Harris, I will adequately recompense you for your efforts. The trip to Cottington shouldn’t take more than three hours and the rain has almost stopped.’

  He took off his hat and scrubbed at his balding head. ‘Going to cost you a bit.’

  This was ridiculous. She was wasting precious time, as it was they’d be lucky to make Cottington before nightfall. ‘Name your price, Mr Harris.’

  ‘Ten shillings.’

  ‘Ten …’ She clamped her lips shut. What did it matter as long as she got Pa home? ‘Done. I shall be back in a moment, please wait here for me.’

  She pushed out of the door and returned to the Rose, Crown and Thistle to change her clothes. If she was riding on a dray she had no intention of sitting there with yards of black crêpe flapping around her. Nellie would let her use one of the rooms; she always had in the past.

  Ten minutes later Catherine was back outside and the driver was stowing a second flagon of rum under the seat. She pushed her carpetbag next to it and clambered up. ‘If you can pull up outside the inn we should be able to pick Pa up there.’

  The driver flicked a look over his shoulder. ‘Don’t hold with touching coffins. It’s bad luck.’

  ‘I’ll find someone to help.’

  ‘So long as it’s a living breathing someone, I’ll be happy.’ He gave a bark of laughter and brought the whip down on the horse’s back.

  Four

  ‘That’s a massive beast. Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of those hooves.’

  Sergey smoothed Tsar’s nose and didn’t answer. The constant comments and complaints drove him crazy. He didn’t care what rules and regulations the Hunter River Steam Navigation Company touted, he had no intention of letting his horse be locked into some crate below decks for the duration of the voyage, even if it had meant spending an extra day in Sydney. He was happy to have him tethered but caged—no. Valentina would have his guts for garters if he tried it with Tsarina.

  The deckhand eyed Tsar from a safe distance, sniffed and hawked over the side into the churning water below the paddle. ‘You’ll have to wait until all the other cargo’s been unloaded before you disembark.’ He scratched his head. ‘Come to think of it, how’re you going to get him down the gangplank?’

  ‘Same way I got him up—he’ll walk.’r />
  ‘Oi, Davy. Come and give us a hand.’

  The deckhand gave a groan and sauntered off in the direction of a group of men attempting to handle something up from below deck. Whatever it was appeared to be causing them a lot of difficulty and their curses peppered the air—too many would-be captains and not enough deckhands.

  He turned back to Tsar. ‘Nearly over and you’ll be back with your mates in no time.’

  A cry made him lift his head.

  ‘Just take it slow, we don’t want to drop the bugger.’ With a splash the belligerent deckhand disappeared over the edge and into the water. The box they were attempting to cart down the gangplank teetered and almost followed but one wily bloke grabbed at the brass handles and it regained balance. What a charade! Rudi could use them in the show. And they were worried about Tsar making it down the gangplank.

  Whatever were they…? It was a coffin. An expensive one at that. The highly polished cedar glinted in the afternoon rays that spread down through the storm clouds. Sergey stifled a laugh. Appropriate really. The inhabitant must have done something right.

  The first bloke completed his careful reverse and stepped onto the wharf and waited for the two fools on the other end to make it onto dry land. Then they lowered the coffin to watch the very wet and bedraggled deckhand haul himself ashore, coughing and spluttering. He’d be in for a ribbing or two. He shook himself like a dog and then they hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders and headed off to an inn sporting a sign displaying a rose, crown and thistle.

  Another hour passed while Sergey waited for all the crates and boxes to be offloaded and the rest of the cargo to be brought up from the hold.

  ‘Right, our turn.’ He untied the ropes that had held Tsar steady during the trip and walked him down the deck behind the last crate full of squawking chickens. Then, unable to resist, he swung up onto Tsar’s back and eased him in line with the gangplank.